While there have been many stressful days these past few weeks, every once in a while the fates like to play let's-shake-things-up and create farcical situations that, if you weren't living in them would almost be funny.
Yesterday's theme: how long can it take to mark one assignment?
Figuring that marking would be less painful sitting in the warmth of our local Starbucks, quiet music in the background, too early in the morning for the crazy Christmas shoppers to be wandering through the mall sprinkling chaos more than Christmas spirit.
Initially, my marking progressed nicely.
Carried along the sea of misspellings, sloppy transcription and the inability to follow rules by a venti mild with two sweeteners and some cream.
Me noting errors, concerns, issues arising from student's first attempts at conducting a semi-structured interview.
And then I made the fateful error.
I checked my cell phone.
While I was looking at the number of early morning missed calls I was able to deduce that either Meredyth or Emily was frantically trying to reach me.
And regardless of which one of them was seeking my attention, it was going to mean that the marking was nearing suspension.
Hopefully temporarily.
I noted which paper I was marking, where I was in the marking process knowing that shortly I would return to said paper and finish.
This was 9.30 am.
I finished that paper at 9.30 pm.
And the intervening 12 hours was like a too-long-never-ending-segment of Just for Laughs Gags.
Without the laughs.
Mer was indeed looking for me.
Wanting a drive to work because she had overslept due to a late night shift at the bar.
I picked her up, dropped her off and headed for my office.
Where I was treated to email upon email upon email from frantic students who still are weighted under their insecurities and intense desire to "do it right."
Ruled by fear they are seeking constant reassurance that they're on the right track.
Two students left me with what looked like entire papers.
For which I had no time to read through.
And didn't.
But that took more time than I wanted to spend.
Or had to spend.
I started marking that paper again, when my phone started ringing.
Both of them.
Office and cell.
Apparently, the keys to Em's car were on the missing list.
Stephen had made an appointment for servicing said car, which was fine, except for the fact that with no keys getting car to it's appointment could be construed as problematic.
From what I could gather from multiple texts and phone calls, the search for said keys had been extensive.
All over the house, the hallway, inside the shoes in case Jasper was being Jasper.
I searched my purse.
Twice.
And then I thought I'd check the car.
The Ford.
At which point, the mystery of the Elantra keys was solved.
They were in the glove compartment of the Ford.
How they got there is still a mystery.
Although I think I know how they got there.
But Stephen refuses to acknowledge that perhaps he had something to do with this.
His selective memory working at maximum capacity.
I turned on the car and drove to the house to deliver said keys. At which point Em and Keith came out of the house dressed in their work uniforms.
Em, who had been home sick for a week and was technically supposed to be in school, took the remainder of Mer's shift.
Mer, who was exhausted, weepy and worn out from working too many hours called Em to see if she would take her shift.
And a week in the house was all the reason Em needed to accept the shift and get out of Dodge.
And Keith.
Who I didn't think was working until 5.00.
But apparently I was wrong.
Back to the mall, with kids in tow, and me needing another venti mild.
Desperate is probably closer to the truth.
Because dropping of Keith and Em logically meant Mer was going to need a drive home.
And she did.
So back to Mer's house we went to drop her off with the promise that she would get. some. sleep.
She needed it, believe me.
And finally, finally back to work in time to go to the 2.30 meeting that could potentially go on forever.
Lasted only until 3.30 because of another meeting on campus. But I'll say this, and if there was ever evidence of how shallow I can be this would be it.
When I walked into the meeting I had to set my things down and leave for the bathroom posthaste because one of the other people on the committee was sporting a mullet perm.
Now, perms, as far as I know, are not as common as they were during their heyday in the 80s.
I had one. Emphasis on one.
And I had a mullet at one point.
But I never combined the two.
Seeing said mullet perm atop the head of a committee member was the straw that broke the camel's back and in the bathroom I had to cover my mouth to suppress the laughter.
Given the absurdity of the day, the number of trips in the car from home to Starbucks to Mer's apartment to the mall to work to Staples to work, to home to the mall and back to Mer's apartment, the impossibility of marking one, just one assignment. . . .
The mullet perm send me over the edge.
Right over.
Resulting in my hauling myself from the edge of the insanity in the stall of a woman's bathroom in an attempt to continue my day long facade of normality and sanity.
I am that good.
My burnt stew, made at 6.30 in the morning and completely ignored by the three other people in the house resulting in a oddly nice tasting char will be covered later.
Prior to Simply for Life, I struggled with near debilitating IBS: Irritable Bowel Syndrome.
I was more than well acquainted with each and every clean bathroom in the greater Fredericton area.
And the ones between Fredericton and Montreal.
Having changed my eating behaviours, I am proud to say that for the most part I have the IBS under control.
Meaning I don't feel the need to rush to the bathroom immediately after eating ready to release the methane equivalent to Mount Vesuvius.
Nonetheless, I am still human.
And thus prone to human bodily functions.
Hence the other morning, as I walked out of my office, I may have expelled some gaseous material as I locked the door.
Not before checking there was no one else in the hallway.
Because SFL or not, I still expel.
As I was started walking down the hallway to my meeting, I hear someone call my name, turn around and see a colleague walk into the center of the cloud of gas floating to the top.
While speaking with me, this colleague may have let out an unexpected cough, a polite way of saying "Why the hell am I standing in the middle of a fart cloud?"
I've never answered a question and walked to a meeting so quickly in my life.
If this was the first time this had ever happened to me, I'd think it was humorous.
But it's not.
I don't like marking.
Surprise!
In an effort to decrease the pain of marking, I am more than willing to meet with students to discuss their papers with them, answer their questions, generally help them through the maze of academic writing, or in their case, writing in general.
Nonetheless, there are those insecure students who make visit, after visit, after visit, after visit, after visit with questions that are not the most critical.
And those who leave half a paper with me, instead of the "please, no more than two pages" I've set as a limit.
Otherwise I'd be reading drafts and drafts and drafts of papers, in addition to marking the final papers.
So when Em called to inform me that Tikka had peed in the front hallway and she thought there may be some blood in her urine, I almost welcomed the opportunity to get out of the office early.
Except for the fact that my 13 year old dog had just peed blood in the front hallway.
Off to the vet I think.
After I called the vet to inform them of her condition, they said bring her and a urine sample.
A urine sample from a female, 13 year old, bred-for-winter-climates furry dog.
Me, outside with Tikka on the leash.
Stephen crouching beside her with an empty, plastic sour cream container trying to collect her pee pee while unable to see where the pee pee was actually coming from.
We managed a little bit.
And the look on Tikka's face when Stephen was trying to collect her urine?
Almost as good as the look on Stephen's face.
I was not the most pleasant driving companion during the trip to Oromocto.
Worried sick about Tikka, who was fine in the back of the car, enjoying her unexpected Frankie-free time.
All I wanted was to hear the vet say she was okay, something wrong with her I could accept, so long as it wasn't fatal.
Not normally so much of a drama queen, but when the kids or pets aren't feeling well, I just seem to lose any sense of staying calm.
Luckily, my baby girl is suffering from a urinary tract infection.
Uncomfortable to be sure, but not fatal.
Amoxicillian for two weeks and she'll be back to her usual self.
Until then, she has to go out every hour or so.
Because there is a lot of pee.
A lot.
Meaning it was a long night.
However, if standing outside in the freezing cold of the late night in my pjs, half asleep, is the price for a healthy, happy Tikka, I'll gladly pay it.
And as if I don't already have enough reasons to love Jim Parsons, a student sent me a video providing me another:
5.20 yesterday afternoon I was officially finished with the in class portion of the term program.
The learning/teaching portion.
That never ends.
For the next couple of days I'll be meeting with those panicked and/or studious students who want to make sure they do "everything right."
I'm fine with that.
So long as the desire to "do everything right" doesn't translate into obsession or nervous breakdowns.
Theirs or mine.
Now all that remains are:
50 Intro to crim exams.
50 Intro to crim papers.
45 Intro to qualitative research exams.
20 Intro to qualitative research interviews.
23 Advanced qualitative papers.
37 Crime and popular films papers.
And then it'll be time to be happy and jolly for the holidays.
Emily has been home for the last several days with the stomach flu.
Making for a very unhappy Em, as you can imagine.
Luckily she was home.
Because as she was reposing in her bedroom, listening to classical music with Reilley, she heard a deafening crash from somewhere in the downstairs area of the house.
Rushing as quickly as she could with a stomach flu, that is.
In the living room, atop the china cabinet, was a lovely hurricane lamp.
Or at least there was a lovely hurricane lamp there.
Until it met Dibley.
Who is deaf, so the crash of said lamp to the floor had absolutely no impact upon him.
But it certainly impacted the remaining four legged, hearing able creatures in this house.
So who knows what else will happen as a result of his inability to ascertain the repercussions of his actions.
Luckily, the encounter between the lamp and Dibley wasn't completely fatal.
The lamp base is heavy and nothing short of smashing against the side of a brick building with the strength of the Hulk could shatter it.
The top of the lamp, however, was not so lucky.
Fortunately for us, it was also not the original top.
It had also succumbed to some encounter or other at an unknown period of time, and what broke by the paw of Dibley was a replacement.
So we'll find another replacement.
And make sure that the lamp doesn't suffer another Dibley attack.
Or anything else breakable for that matter.
After hearing about Dibley's machinations, Stephen returned home and promptly removed all breakables from the living room area until our deaf Dibley "outgrows this phase."
Thing is, I don't know if he actually will ever outgrow his need to knock things over.
But I don't think Stephen is ready to hear that yet.
I feel like I am in a sci fi movie where some inconsequential character is trapped inside one of those rooms where the walls, ceiling, floor are all moving inwards.
Eventually leading to the inevitable crushing and death of the individual inside.
It's not work.
Actually, for the first time, I am waiting for things to mark.
I know.
I think it's weird, too.
Consequently, I am preparing syllabi's for next term, getting next week's exams ready, and doing committee work in advance of its needing to be done, so it will be done.
On time.
For a change.
I may even have my exam shortbread cookies ready before my first exam.
And Christmas shopping started and completed before the 23rd of December.
Will the world ever survive such foresightedness?
Ergo, if it isn't work that's making me feel I am going to be crushed under the weight of ever moving steel walls, it must be something else.
And in my world there is only one more "else."
Family.
For some reason, the last few weeks have been particularly challenging.
There is a disturbance in the force.
And it is causing some fiercely nasty mojo.
Some of it comes from the continuing inability of some to understand that I do not have control over everything, everyone, all events that may or may not occur.
Others struggle to accept that while my career choice does entail some flexibility, it does not mean that I can or am willing to drop everything I am doing to meet their needs.
Or that repeated phone calls, unanswered because I am in the President's Office, are not going to be answered faster with the volume of calls received.
Or that if I chose to allow people into my office to work because they have assignments that require a printer, a printer we don't have, while there is another of my offspring working where they always work, then that is obviously fine with me but does not mean I do not understand the meaning of boundaries.
And if my students don't like it, oh well.
If I am still meeting with them, albeit in the lab because it is roomier, cleaner, than that should be enough.
If I had control of everything, everyone, wouldn't that mean I would change things substantially in my life?
That I would ensure balance and equanimity?
Clearly identified boundaries?
That everyone would chip in, do their share, willingly, happily?
Leading people to conclude that if all of these things are still happening, then clearly I DON'T have control over everything and everyone.
Nor do I want to.
Clearly, I can't manage what I have.
Who would possibly consider me for the position of Person in Control of Everything??????
So buck up.
Accept that I will address all those things within my power to address.
But this does not mean that the ends you desire will appear magically.
I will try, though, because I see addressing these things as part of my role as parent.
And if you made choices that are not good for you, I will not be held responsible for them.
The reason why I keep refusing the title of Person in Control of Everything.
I can hardly look after myself.
Let alone take control of the choices others choose to make.
So logical.
So how come I seem to be the only one who understands this?
Title Lyric: Crushed Under the Weight of the Enormous Bullshit by Reuben
While taking Frankie out for his morning ablutions, he became guarded, on alert, a low grumble at the base of this throat, hackles partially raised.
Me, scanning the immediate area trying to locate the source of his discontent.
Nothing.
No birds, squirrelies, no dogs or cats, no people, no cars.
Nothing.
What was so upsetting for him?
Getting on my haunches, I look in the direction he is so intently gazing upon.
A reindeer.
A Christmas light reindeer.
Only one.
Unlit.
But the mere presence was enough to alert Frankie to an assumed threat to the peace and tranquility of his everyday world.
Just what you want to deal with first thing in the morning. Pre-coffee, having just scooped up warm, stinky poo.
Threatening reindeer.
Go Frankie.
Our afternoon, yesterday, was spent wheeling my mother through the mall.
She wanted an outing.
And a writing tablet and Christmas card for my father.
I was somewhat reluctant to go to the mall on a Sunday afternoon, a mere three weeks before Christmas.
Em and I had gone to a movie Saturday afternoon.
Breaking Dawn.
Better than I had anticipated by the way.
And it was chaos.
People pushing and shoving, banging into one another, an "excuse me" as far from their lips as the Christmas spirit that was supposed to accompany these ersatz shoppers.
I wasn't expecting much more on Sunday.
Luckily, we went late enough in the afternoon that maneuvering was all that was needed to get through the throngs of shoppers.
No pushing or shoving.
I didn't even have to wait in a long line up for coffee and muffins.
We had a nice, long talk with Mum about the trials and tribulations we're experiencing with the kids.
She may no longer be the physical self I remember when growing up, but her mind is as sharp as ever and she shared with us the wisdom of her experiences.
Making us feel better, if not providing concrete solutions.
Those are our mistakes to make.
But it was still the mall, on a weekend.
And after an hour and a half, we'd all had enough and off we went back to the grove. She also wanted a sweater.
But there was NO way I was going from store to store in search of THE sweater my mother wants to purchase for my father.
And my mother is picky.
Particular.
Knows what she wants and settling is never an option.
Therefore, we made plans for a week from today to tackle the mall early Monday morning, as soon as it opens.
Me hoping against hope that it isn't too busy that she and I will struggle to get into stores, out of stores. . .
Stephen with us, pushing the wheelchair.
Preventing me from doing something that would require police intervention.
Today is a mish mash of meetings.
A walk at noon to shake off the cobwebs of the morning and re-energize me for the afternoon.
